The Teamster's Tragedy
by Sandboxlion
Summary: The story of the cart driver who carried the Dragonborn to the Thalmor Estate centered around the idea that a Nord's last thought should be of home.
1. Homecoming

It had been two days since the blonde woman approached Bjorn in the Bannered Mare. The day had begun normally enough, a routine visit to his home in Whiterun after a long drive out to Riften. The weather was mild by Skyrim's standards, but any Nord could catch the warnings of Winter on the autumn wind. Nirn herself seemed to have submitted to the thumping knell of death, condemning all her children to suffer the cost of man's transgressions. Even the soil, scorched with war and stained with blood, rebelled against the farmer's touch, making the greenest thumbs feel unwelcome. Determined not to spoil his homecoming, Bjorn pushed such thoughts away and greeted the morning sun with a verse from "the Dragonborn Comes," a song hot on the tongues of bards in the recent months.**  
**

Bjorn spotted Skulvar leaning against one of the large wooden beams that supported the Whiterun stables and respectfully cut his butchery of the song short. Not that the old ostler would have noticed. Skulvar's eyes were blank with reflection, staring somewhere far beyond the sky-piercing mountains. Skulvar breathed in the cool morning air, immune to the smell of horse dung, and returned to the world of the living. The ostler allowed himself a small smile when he finally caught sight of his friend.**  
**

"Bjorn! Survived another glorious ride up to Riften?" Skulvar's strong voice easily traveled the distance between them. "I hope the baskets made their way up to the Skooma Dens unharmed."**  
**

"Fah! I see that your sense of humor hasn't withered with old age, my friend."**  
**

"Stop cowering behind that cart an' you'll see there are plenty o' things that haven't withered in my _old age_."

Bjorn chuckled in turn, knowing how short that row would be. Years of hard labor and the occasional swing of the axe had kept Skulvar's sinewy arms in top form. Anyone who had truly known Skulvar, however, could see that his joints weren't holding up the way that they used to and tasks which had once been mundane were now performed with strain and tension.

"How's the old dung heap holding up?" Skulvar continued, never ashamed of his deep seated hatred for Riften's thieves, layabouts and lovey dovey Mara worshipers.

"Smelly an' rotten as always. And infested with insects."**  
**

Skulvar's raspy chuckle was quickly replaced with the frown he had worn before the exchange of pleasantries. It was unsettling to see someone who was always so cheery and focused furrow his brow in worry, but Bjorn knew better than to press the issue. A Nord's pride was second only to breathing and honeymead. If he didn't tell you what was on his mind from the start, then it wasn't any of your business.**  
**

Bjorn eased himself off his cart, well aware of his own aging, and limped over to the cart's rear. Long rides were never easy on the back and turned even the most seasoned legs to mush. Bjorn reached into the cart and freed the trunk that held his coin from its restraints with an old bronze key he hid within the folds of his tunic. As Bjorn dug up the ten Septims that Skulvar charged to care for horse and cart, Skulvar's voice lightened up once again, even if his expression didn't follow.

"Ya know I should pay _you _just for the chance to care for that beauty of a horse o' yours, Bjorn."

"Well, we can't all have your legendary business sense, my friend."

Bjorn tied a tiny length of rope around the mouth of a soft, leather coin purse and tossed it over to Skulvar, who didn't even bother counting. Skulvar weighed the purse in his hand and cocked his head in surprise. Bjorn walked in close, to avoid shouting over the wind.

"A little extra...for the boy."

Skulvar nodded and set the purse on the ground, turning to frown at Jervar's lazy shoveling. The frown was met with an indignant scowl that would have earned Jervar a good bludgeoning if his father wasn't with a customer.

"Not that he's earned an ounce of it."

Bjorn grunted in affirmation.

"Well, old friend," Skulvar said, placing a hand on Bjorn's shoulder and forcing the taut muscles of his face into a warm smile, "you've spent more than enough time here entertaining the flies. Get home to that girl of yours. She's nearly exploded with excitement. Same way she always does whenever you're a day away." Bjorn warmed at the thought of his daughter's shining face. He returned to his cart and moved his coin and other valuables into a small leather knapsack.

"Wind be on your back, brother," Bjorn said as he hoisted the knapsack onto his shoulders.

"Aye. Talos guide you."

Bjorn found himself troubled as he climbed the path up to the gates. Skulvar's lack of protest to the extra coin was a bad sign. Just a year ago, Skulvar would never have accepted any form of charity, even if it came on a silver platter from the Jarl himself, and Bjorn would have known better than to offer. So much had changed since the civil war started. Since Ulfric and his damned Stormcloaks started their thrice-cursed campaign.**  
**

The guardsman's mustard yellow raiment caught the morning sun, blinding Bjorn as he approached the large gates of the hold. He hailed the guardsman with a quick wave and, after a routine fit of shouting between the guard and the wheelmaster, the gates slowly began to open. The iron that reinforced the base of the plain, but sturdy, twin doors scraped against the loose dirt and stones that had freed themselves from the surface of the road.

Bjorn always had to brace himself whenever he watched the gates open. Everything that he loved, everything that made any sense in this war-torn world, lay just beyond this great wooden portal. The crawling gates revealed, bit by bit, the perfect portrait of an autumn morning in Whiterun. The perfect portrait of home.


	2. Glowgirl

Bjorn's nose crinkled involuntarily as a thick, black smoke assaulted his lungs. Tears collected at the corners of his eyes. His body, attempting to expel the offending smog, heaved violently as he coughed. When he spat out the last of the foul air, Bjorn regained control of his senses. Through the thick clouds, he spotted the Avenicci girl shoveling coals into her workshop's large, black smelter. She and her husband owned the local smithy, The Warmaiden's. Bjorn opened his mouth to hail the blacksmith, but a large door slammed violently behind him, stealing the words from his throat.

_A visitor_, Bjorn thought. _Someone who doesn't belong_.

Bjorn turned to look at the man who had so rudely shut the door, marking the offender as an unwelcome presence. A man wearing dark, studded leather armor adjusted one of the many weapons holstered to his waist and torso, then strutted away from the Drunken Huntsman, his equipment clanking like a prisoner's chains. He was deadly sober and hunted game that no honest citizen of Whiterun would be interested in buying.

The massive, scarred shadow of what was once a Nord set one heavy boot on the main road and stopped just shy of bumping shoulders with Bjorn. The man turned and Bjorn looked up into the cold, inhuman eyes of Death. Bjorn trembled. Not out of fear, but a deep-seated anger with himself that the filthy, battle-ready messengers of Death always incited. He knew that if the spectre before him decided to bring that death-worn battleaxe down on his wife or daughter, there was nothing he could do to stop him. Bjorn knew that the once-man knew it as well and that boiled his rage until he could feel its pressure pulsing at his temples. Holding Bjorn's gaze just a moment longer, the once-man spat on the road, just shy of Bjorn's right boot, and left the city.

"_Mercenaries_," Bjorn cursed to himself, letting the mumbled word carry his hatred through the wind until he heard the gates shut behind him.

When he was finally able to quiet his anger, Bjorn looked up and started toward the smithy.

"Hail, Warmaiden!" Bjorn called above the screeching whine of the grindstone.

"How many?" She asked, never taking her eyes off her work.

"Always straight to the point, eh? Wish that quick-tongued father of yours could replace some of that court fluff he's so fond of with some of what you got," Bjorn chuckled. "I only need one this time around. Kynareth blessed me with an easy ride."

Without a word, the Avenicci girl finished with the sword she was sharpening and picked a horse shoe mold from the wall.

"So soon, girl? There's no need to rush. I'm sure you've got plenty of orders to fill. Mine can wait."

She shook her head and turned to look at Bjorn. Her Imperial skin was bronzed from exposure to the sun and the braids of her neglected ponytail were clumped and tangled with moisture. Beads of black sweat trickled down the hills and valleys of her lean forearms and collected at the ends of her dark leather gloves. She was beautiful. Not the shallow, powdered beauty of tavern wenches and court women, but the true beauty of duty, strength and honor. The beauty of a true, Nord woman.

"There are more important things in this world than war. You and your wife do more for Whiterun than any of those idiot boys in armor," she said, reaching for an iron ingot. "Besides, I need a break from making these artless, steel sticks our men use to spill one another's guts." The Warmaiden turned toward the forge, her heavy, red dress disappearing beneath the veil smoke, and Bjorn knew the conversation was over.

Bjorn continued walking toward his home at a leisurely pace, eager to be home, but not willing to pass over Whiterun's beauty in haste. The morning sun was nearly full in the sky when Bjorn finally arrived at his home. His wife and daughter would be just about ready to start the day. Bjorn gave thanks to Kynareth, the patron goddess of travelers, whose temple flourished in Whiterun, and grasped the large, cold, iron handle that hanged from his door. After a short fight with the stubborn hinges, Bjorn entered his home.

Bjorn's wife was kneeling next to their daughter, smearing a salve on her face under the light from one of their home's few windows.

"But M'ma, that stuff really sti-," was all that Bjorn was able to hear before his daughter charged into his arms, nearly knocking the wind out from his lungs. She buried her face in his chest, smearing blisterwort paste all over her father's thick, wool tunic.

"P'pa! You finally made it home! I knew you'd be here soon! I told you M'ma! I told you!"

Bjorn reached down and ruffled his daughter's unkempt blonde hair with a large, calloused palm.

"And just in time to hear about the latest mischief you've gotten yourself into, eh?" Bjorn smiled warmly, unable to force a disciplinary tone.

His wife had no such problem. She stood slowly and put her hands on her hips, drawing her daughter's attention back to the trouble she was in. She could wield that motherly glare of disapproval as well as any warrior could his sword, always managing to cut right to the heart. Bjorn shuddered whenever he recalled the few times his follies earned him that prize.

"Yes, Thalestris, why don't you tell your father about your row with Saffir's girl."

Bjorn freed himself from his daughter's embrace and frowned as he saw the deep scratches that glared a nasty shade of red on her left cheek. She bowed her head in what was meant to look like an apologetic gesture. Bjorn knew better.

"Well, Estri," he said, finally finding his parental vibrato. Crossing his arms, Bjorn took a short step back before continuing. "Let's hear it."

Estri stared at the floor a few more moments, then shot her head up like a frightened deer, words flying from her mouth faster than the Northwind. "P'pa, I didn't mean to, I swear it! _She_ started it!" Still as stone, Bjorn's wife crossed her arms and silently listened to their daughter's rehearsed story. "I was just outside the house, watching the morning birds sing, when Braith came 'round the corner and scared them all away! Then she started poking fun at me! She called me _Glowgirl_! You know how much I hate that! So, I just...I don't know...I couldn't help it really! You have to believe me P'pa!"

At the end of Estri's desperate plight, Bjorn's wife shifted her weight, silently taking command of attention. Her usually warm eyes had now turned cold as ice. Judgement pulled her brow in slightly and the tiny blue orbs above her rosy cheeks suddenly cut through all deception with the frigid blade of all the Pale's blizzard-winds.

"You seem to have forgotten the part where you blackened her eye and ripped out her hair, Thalestris." Estri turned her gaze to the floor and scratched at the wooden floorboards with the tip of one of her rough leather boots. Unrelenting, her mother now raised the whip of guilt. "Surely you weren't planning on hiding anything from your father, were you girl?"

"N-No, M'ma! I wasn't!" She stammered frantically. "It's just, I wasn't! No!"

"_Hair pulling, _Thalestris?"

Bjorn rarely called his daughter by her full name and her frenzied words froze on her tongue.

"It's one thing to fight and, truth be told, I don't fault you for giving that girl what she had coming to her. It's a different matter when you pull a girl's hair out of her damn scalp! We Nords fight with honor! We don't poke eyes and grab hair in front of our homes like Forsworn savages!" Silence followed Bjorn's harsh words as Estri awaited judgement.

"Look up, girl!" Bjorn continued. "Don't ever take words with your head down. Look at me and take your punishment with some dignity!"

Estri obeyed, standing to her full height of four feet and arching her neck to meet her father's eyes. Her gaze was so fierce and determined that Bjorn had to keep the corners of his lips from turning up to a proud smile.

"Now, go let your mother put on that blisterwort paste," Bjorn said, taking some of the edge off his voice, but losing none of the authority. "When you're done helping her with her weavin' you're gonna shovel for Skulvar at his stables, understand?"

"Yes, P'pa." She said, never losing eye contact.

Bjorn dismissed her with a grunt and walked over to his bedroom as his wife silently tended to Estri's scratches. He slipped out of his heavy traveling clothes and wearily crawled under the cheap furs that he and his wife shared as blankets. The scratch of hay at his back was a gift from the gods when compared to the limited comfort of a rough, jolting wooden bench. Bjorn's entire body was quickly overcome with fatigue as he fell into a dreamless sleep.


	3. The Simple Truth

Bjorn woke with a start when he felt a sudden pressure on the bed frame. The worries of the road had not yet left him after such a short time home. Even the smallest disturbance made Bjorn's eyes thrust open, sending his heart to a frenzy while adrenaline granted his senses the clarity necessary for survival. He threw the furs from his naked body and sat erect, eyes scanning frantically for any sign of danger. Thick beads of sweat formed on Bjorn's brow while his chest heaved deeply to the rhythm of the frightened. His dancing pupils found nothing but the blinding glow of candlelight. When his ears seemed fit to hold their secrets as well, Bjorn turned to his nose and was greeted by the sweet caress of lavender, that soothing aroma that always accompanied his wife. _I__'__m__safe__, _he had to tell himself. _I__'__m__home__._

His wife was unaffected by the display and silently waited for him to calm. She stared into the glowing embers of the extinguished hearthfire, face hard with concern and worry. "Runa?" Bjorn managed to mumble, tongue still thick from sleep. "Yes, dear, it's me."

_Runa__,_ Bjorn thought again to himself. When Bjorn and Runa first met, he had a devil of a time trying to figure out how to pronounce her Breton name, "Ronerelie." When he finally gave up on pronouncing her original name, Bjorn said that she was gonna be Runa if she was gonna be his woman. Runa had no love for her grandmother's name and eagerly cast it aside, along with the life she left behind in Cyrodiil. _Runa__._

Runa slowly turned her face toward her husband, eyes soft with apology.

_Bad__news_. Bjorn knew it must be urgent as well, if she interrupted his fragile, post-journey sleep. Bjorn kicked his bare legs from under the furs and carefully navigated them around Runa. By the time his feet made it to the cold, wooden floor of the bedroom, Bjorn's legs were screaming a protest of pain, chorused by all of the other body parts that were sore from long travel.

Bjorn and his wife sat in silence at the edge of their bed. They comforted one another with presence where words and touch would have failed. After what could've been hours, Runa finally spoke. "There's something I have to show you." Bjorn knew better than to ask what the item was before his wife was ready to show him, so he simply nodded in response. A small, solemn nod that told his wife he was ready to see what he knew he wouldn't want to have seen. Another moment passed before Runa lifted herself from the bed, the undisturbed sheets betraying her family's almost supernatural grace.

She came from a prominent family of Breton mages and counted herself as one of the lucky few who were born without "the Gift." Runa never hated her family for treating her like she didn't exist and never envied her two brothers who had every single step of their lives decided for them once their powers emerged. She was free to have a family and make an honest living weaving baskets in Whiterun.

She opened the lock box on their end table and pulled out a few strands of wiry redguard hair. Braith's hair. She sat back on the end of the bed and solemnly released the wiry strands into Bjorn's open palms. Bjorn didn't have to find a source of light to know what the problem was. The hair was singed.

Despair overwhelmed him. All at once, Bjorn's greatest fear besieged his consciousness until pain was the only experience his mind allowed. Tears shattered the floodgates of his pride and fell freely to his exposed feet. He knew instinctively that Runa's eyes were watering as well, but her tears had dried up on the night when she had to face cold reality all alone, without Bjorn to share her burden. Her long-dried tears sang a terrible requiem for the death of dreams from his pillow, calling the tears of failure to the anchor of Bjorn's woes. Failure as a husband, failure as a father.

As the trail of his final tear dried on his cheek, Bjorn found himself hollow. He floated in the darkness like a being without purpose or direction. He was a ghost haunting himself. His wife didn't exist. His home didn't exist. His hope didn't exist. In the abyss he saw only one image. His own terrible, disjointed lips whispering, perpetually, the same eight words.

_Your__daughter__is__a__mage__... __Thalestris__is__a__mage__..._


End file.
